This morning we awoke a thin melody floating through the air. The music, which sounds like something that might come out of an ice-cream truck, has become a regular part of each morning. It originates from somewhere on the street, and for many days it was a funny mystery. Funny because the only song it plays is the theme song to Titanic (the movie). Yesterday, the mystery was solved when a huge, lumbering water truck passed us by, the tinny melody dancing along behind it down the street. The humor in the observation that a giant water truck was playing the theme song to the Titanic was not lost on us. Even in Haiti, Celine Dion sings on.
Today at school was the parent/teacher meeting for the primary school. Francois had us join her in the meeting she had with parents. Obed—our Creole tutor, met us there to act as an interpreter. The meeting went as any parent/teacher meeting might go: Francois went over the activities of the school, encouraged the parents to become more involved, discouraged allowing children to bring cell phones to school, discussed teacher selection and introduced Patrick and I. She also pointed out some problem children in front of the whole audience; the mother’s of the troublemakers nodded their heads in agreement that yes, so-and-so was a handful. Apparently the math teacher gives out too much homework as became apparent by multiple parents raising their hands in protest. Mostly they were concerned that their children had to stay up too late at night, and there was no light for them to study by.
I gave a little teaching session to the parents on nutrition, hoping that something I offered them would be of value. I felt humbled telling people who were surely struggling to survive all the different things that were necessary for a child’s good health. But I tried to find low cost, simple teaching points that they could utilize in their homes that would save them some money. They seemed to be interested in a few points, at least, gauged by their questions. And I didn’t sweat a drop. Must be acclimating a bit. Or just sufficiently dehydrated.
The rest of the school day was spent teaching English for both Patrick and I. We taught the older children who tend to be more attentive and interactive than the younger kids. Patrick worked with a teacher this time, and when I passed his class, the room was filled with song.
Interacting with the children is our favorite part of the school. But the line of questioning rarely changes. After establishing who we are, the second question ALWAYS is if we have children, when we’ll have them, if we like them, how long we’ve been married (accompanied by gasp of surprise), how old I am (another gasp), if we’ll have a child in Haiti, and will that child be Haitian. Patrick was asked if I died, would he want children. (???) I think our childless state is a little disconcerting. It literally confuses some kids. I tried to tell one boy today that first education, then children. But that still didn’t clear things up for him. I then attempted, “my job is my child,” but that baffled him further. Oh well. I DO notice many an odd stare my way as if Patrick would be better off with a more fertile Mertle.
Patrick and I left school for our date night this afternoon, with plans to drive up the mountain past Petionville to a Baptist mission sitting on a hillside. Felix took us there in March to treat us to its famous American burgers and milkshakes. A milkshake sounded like a little slice of heaven to us, and we motored up the hill. Traffic was unusually slow, bumper-to-bumper up the steep incline. We eventually made it past Petionville, and lumbered further up the mountain. The air cooled. The green of the landscape intensified as we climbed higher. Wild flowers poured themselves over walls, vegetation spread lush over the landscape celebrating the rainy season. The mountains around us were covered in lazy cloud that sunk beneath their peaks. Farmed plots of land sewed a patchwork design over the mountain slopes; grey houses dotted the landscape around the fields. We passed soccer fields filled with running children. Walls full of artwork—paintings, carvings and metalwork—were accompanied by their artesian sitting patiently along the road waiting for a sale. Men with plantain chips heaped into a basket atop their head wove through traffic selling snacks for the ride; cold soda or an energy drink was available too. No need for a McDonalds drive through. We had window-side service.
The ride was slow, but refreshing. The air cleared the higher we climbed, and the landscaped bloomed into deeper shades of green. However, when we finally arrived at the mission, it had already closed for the day. No milkshakes tonight.
Mildly disappointed, we decided to head back down the mountain before dark. The traffic quickly thickened to stop and go. The first cause of the jam was a semi with a flat bed carrying a car. The bed was tipped up and dragging along the road, the car that was chained to the bed was hanging off the platform riding at a cock-eyed angle to traffic, its front tires rolling across the road. But even after getting past this monstrosity of a traffic stopper, the traffic was painfully slow. Our breaks started to smoke. I envisioned our most certain death. Date night was giving Patrick a headache and enough tension in his shoulders to bounce a quarter off of. We inched our way all the way back to the guest house, amazed at the insanity of the traffic—tonight more than ever. We later found out the reason for the upsurge in vehicles on the road. A school had collapsed today in Petionville, injuring and killing hundreds of children. Hospitals in Port-Au-Prince were packed with the victims of the disaster. No real reason for the collapse except shoddy building design. The news floored us. Suddenly our annoyance with the ride down the mountain paled in light of the disaster we had unknowingly driven by.
So this evening after a nourishing dinner thanks to the talented Madam Rosalina, we are holed up in our bedroom seeking a little refuge from the city, from the shock of news of such a tragedy, from the fatigue of emotional highs and lows packed into a day.
A gecko just scampered into our room, happy and green. I’m happy to see it, but really hoping it doesn’t choose to sleep in my hair tonight. That might put me over the edge.
Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the geckos dance in your hair.
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